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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27019417">memento mori</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfykeith/pseuds/wolfykeith'>wolfykeith</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Voltron: Legendary Defender</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Lance is curious, M/M, Slow Burn, and a happy story, and a spooky story, but i won't give too much away, keith has secrets, lance is a writer, this is a sad story, victorian gothic vibes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:02:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,241</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27019417</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfykeith/pseuds/wolfykeith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He eyes the entry and the door, spotting a shifting shadow near the window. Though his curtains are drawn, the banging stops long enough for whatever it is to peer inside. It stands there as he slowly descends, as if knowing he were on his way. </p>
<p>When he reaches the door, the figure steps aside. It is no doubt right in front of him, the pair of them only separated by the old oak door. Now, instead of a bang, the figure uses the ornate golden knocker. But to Lance, it is just as threatening. He eyes the door knob, debating if he should risk it at all. Perhaps he can wait it out long enough for the figure to flee. </p>
<p>After a few moments, he knows that isn't going to happen. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Keith &amp; Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>memento mori</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>sorry in advance for any mistakes or errors!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The candlelight is a flicker against the windowpane, illuminating Lance's reflection in a ghostly apparition. He is reading but his eyelids are drooping, lashes thick against the crests of his cheeks. In the hallway, as shadowed and drafty as it is, the old grandfather clock ticks in time with the patter of gentle rain. It is a perfect night to stay awake, to wander about and find little things to do. He'd already tended to his plants and washed up his own dishes, even going so far as to step out onto the porch and feel the chilled stormy air. <br/>
<br/>
Sighing, he reaches for his tea on the small table beside the reading nook, glad that it's still warm against his lips. It's a balm against his throat, a final farewell to an illness that stuck to him for the last few weeks. Luckily, it hadn't progressed to something worse. He shuts his eyes at the thought, wishing not for the first time that his mother were here to tell him to go to bed. He's far from a child, but everyone longs for someone else to care about them. <br/>
<br/>
But it is just him in this old house. It's a creaky, breathing thing. Full of old portraits and a spiraling staircase, at first the noises used to frighten him. It was so unlike his memories, when the house was filled with light and laughter. His siblings could hardly care if it fell to ruin. Yet, to Lance, it is still precious. There is a creak above but he doesn't bother leaving to inspect it. The attic is filled with aging objects, family heirlooms and clothes. The last time he'd ventured there he had entered a sneezing fit so vicious it made his head pound. Sometimes, he thinks he can still feel the dust in his nose. So he knows, regardless of the noise, that there is no otherworldly being there to hurt him.<br/>
<br/>
He dog-ears his page and shuts his book, yawning against a distant rumble of thunder. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he leans over to blow out the candle. Another is lit in the corner of the room but it's far enough away that it doesn't cause such a reflection. Now, he can see out into the yard, how the hill rolls downward toward an old cobble road. There is a lamp post there, the orange of the contained flame lighting only a small perimeter. Beyond that, across the waving grassy field, is a dark forest. In the morning, there will no doubt be a thick fog rolling toward his house. But for now, he lets his eyes roam over the shadows and shapes, content. <br/>
<br/>
Tomorrow, he figures he will explore more of the house, taking to the Eastern wing. He hardly remembers going there when he was a child but he knows he can't alternately write all day long. His hand is a cramping mess, fingers stiff from hold quill to parchment. As much as he would love to finish his new novel, he knows these things take time. He can't rush it, he can't push. <br/>
<br/>
Yawning, he makes his way to bed and begins to unbutton his shirt, never enjoying sleeping in the fabric. His ceiling fan can only do so much and the last thing he wants to do is sweat in the sheets. It may be autumn outside, but the house retains heat. He's unbuttoned it halfway when there is a sudden bang, as though something had slammed into the front door. It echoes in the foyer and up the stairs, all the way to his room. He freezes, blood going cold. It's too late for visitors and it's not like he gets them much as it is. He plucks up his silver pocket watch and pushes the button to open it, eyeing the time. <br/>
<br/>
3:23AM. The sun won't rise for another three hours.<br/>
<br/>
The bang comes again, followed by two more. He stands quickly, pulse a racing beat in his throat. When the bang returns, this time is doesn't stop. It's a loud, violent interruption and he wastes no time reaching for his Beaumont revolver. He tucks it into his pants and dons a long coat, all of that heat now replaced with a frightening chill. The banging grows louder when he makes it to the stairs, the creak of the floorboards drowned out. He eyes the entry and the door, spotting a shifting shadow near the window. Though his curtains are drawn, the banging stops long enough for whatever it is to peer inside. It stands there as he slowly descends, as if knowing he were on his way. <br/>
<br/>
When he reaches the door, the figure steps aside. It is no doubt right in front of him, the pair only separated by the old oak door. Now, instead of a bang, the figure uses the ornate golden knocker. But to Lance, it is just as threatening. He eyes the door knob, debating if he should risk it at all. Perhaps he can wait it out long enough for the figure to flee. <br/>
<br/>
After a few moments, he knows that isn't going to happen. <br/>
<br/>
So, just as the rain truly begins to pour, he unlatches the lock and rips the door open. His revolver is raised immediately, chamber resting snugly against the stranger's forehead. Right between the eyes, all he has to do is pull the trigger. <br/>
<br/>
The person is hooded and leaning a palm against the wall, black hair dripping wet. It sticks to a pale throat, something dark splotched there. His clothes look rather proper, if not weathered. <br/>
<br/>
"Who are you?" Lance asks, not dropping the gun for even a moment. Thunder booms loudly now, practically shaking the entire house. "What do you want?"<br/>
<br/>
The figure grunts and looks as though he's going to fall over, limbs shaking. Lance curses and glances behind him, toward the grounds and the road. He's heard of things like this, some intruder feigning injury to gain entry to a wealthy looking home. But he spots no carriages waiting, no shadows lingering. <br/>
<br/>
"Fuck." He mumbles, finally lowering the gun. "Well, come on then. I suppose you can't murder me if you're close to death yourself."<br/>
<br/>
He reaches forward and tugs the man inside, gently but firmly, until he can hold him up and shut the door with his foot. It slams shut, casting the foyer into darkness. But Lance has roamed long enough to find his way, easing the man into the living room and onto the plush floral couch. He sinks like a dead thing, huffing a heavy breath. Lance hurries back and locks the door again, quickly finding a candelabra to set upon the table. He lights a match and sends the room into a warm glow. Now that he can see, he waits a moment, wondering if the man will speak or move. Though he lays on his back, his face is toward the cushions, black hair strewn across the length of his neck and cheeks. A hand rests on his stomach, a single dark ring settled against his index finger. He appears harmless, if only because he doesn't speak. <br/>
<br/>
Lance's jaw clenches as he steps forward, knowing he must check for grave injury. The last thing he truly wants is a corpse to spend the night. He stops at the edge of the couch and reaches forward, first moving the hair from the man's face. Many of the strands stick but Lance doesn't bother moving all of them. He simply reaches a finger under the man's chin and gently turns his head until the expanse of his face is in view. <br/>
<br/>
"Oh." Lance breathes, somehow relieved. The man isn't monstrous, he isn't sporting any supernatural resemblances. Lance recalls the drawings and paintings he'd seen of demons and creatures of the night, almost feeling foolish for thinking that could be a possibility now. <br/>
<br/>
Instead, the man is achingly human. His jaw is strong, cheeks high against thick brows. Dark circles rest beneath his lashes and judging by how quickly he'd fainted, Lance guesses the man hasn't slept in quite some time. With a another reassured release of air, Lance stumbles back and plops into a large arm chair, bringing his fingers to his temple. There is a dull ache beginning to pulse but he knows he cannot sleep. Not now. Instead, he takes up the revolver and lets it rest in his other hand, facing the hardwood. Should this all be a trick, all he must do is raise and aim. <br/>
<br/>
He keeps his attention on the man, gaze roaming over the dark stains on his neck.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Blood?</em> He wonders. <br/>
<br/>
Guilt rages against him. He groans and leans forward to rub at his eyes, only setting the gun down long enough to do so. Part of him wishes to leave this man's fate up to whatever God is watching. But the larger part of him, the pieces that retain the teachings of his mother, knows he can't just let him die. So, just as quickly as he sat, he rises again. He rushes to the kitchen and bends to look beneath the old wash sink, pushing aside cleaning materials to gather up a pan full of medical equipment. Nothing fancy, but good enough. <br/>
<br/>
He returns to the room and sets it on the table beside the candelabra. <br/>
<br/>
"Sorry about this." He speaks aloud, "I hope you don't mind."<br/>
<br/>
He pushes aside the man's collar and checks for slashes or punctures. When he sees nothing, he leans a tad closer to inspect the stains. They're a dark rusty color, flaky and thick. <br/>
<br/>
"Blood. Of course it couldn't be something less alarming like dirt or mud."<br/>
<br/>
Unbuttoning the man's shirt, he does his best to remain respectful. He doesn't touch where he shouldn't, only looking for anything unusual. There is a cut running against the man's rib, not too deep but it definitely tore at some muscle. The dried blood grows thicker beneath his arms, as though whatever caused it comes from the man's back. Lance can hardly roll him over without pushing him from the couch, so he does his best to lift him just a bit, noticing a deep gash beginning just beneath his left shoulder blade. It is shut but very agitated, most likely infected. He can't work on it now, much to his own dismay. <br/>
<br/>
"You'll just have to wake up, won't you?" He asks, not expecting an answer. But speaking out loud is easier than listening to the silence; to the thunder and the stuttered breathing coming from the stranger. "I can still do what I can, though."<br/>
<br/>
He reaches for a pair of thick gloves and a cloth, unscrewing a bottle to soak the end in carbolic acid. He brings it to the cut along the man's rib and dabs at it, eyes flitting up to see the way his brows crease. This doesn't stop Lance, of course. He continues to clean the wound and dress it, pushing a sterile piece of cloth against it before using an old roll of medical tape to keep it in place. Finished, Lance wanders to the kitchen again to scrub the fresh blood from his fingers. He isn't squeamish but he figures no one truly likes having someone else's fluids on their skin. <br/>
<br/>
When he returns, he goes back to his seat and decides to wait the rest of the night out. If the man isn't awake by morning, Lance supposes he'll have to find a way to do it himself. <br/>
<br/>
Outside, the wind picks up. It sends branches scratching at the windows, pieces of the house flapping and fluttering. The wood creaks and cracks and soon enough, Lance lights a small fire in the hearth. That chill hasn't left and it settles now, nipping at his fingers and his nose. It hardly makes sense but he doesn't think too much of it, finding it best to ignore most strange occurrences. He simply makes himself a new cup of tea, with a shot of gin, to keep himself awake. The man only shifts once, turning his face in Lance's direction. For a brief moment, he thinks he sees the man's eyes open. They go wide, frighteningly wide, before shutting again. Lance blinks fast and when he settles his gaze, he finds that the man is not awake. <br/>
<br/>
"It's the late hour." Lance muses, "Keep your mind off of ghostly things."<br/>
<br/>
Yet, as his own eyes flutter and his blinks grow slow, he can't help but begin to dream. It is a night much like this, only now he sees the stranger is standing. He is leaning over Lance, a small pinpoint of light glowing in the center of his eyes. There is a smell of coppery blood and woodsmoke, of something expensive and foreign. And then there is a huff of breath against Lance's throat, just beneath his jaw. It sends a shiver through him, the dream shifting to early morning, the fog filtering in beneath the floorboards. A hum fills the air, a comforting sound. <br/>
<br/>
And then, with no warning, the breath turns to teeth. Those teeth sink so deeply into him, trapping him in this dream, sending him into the eternal fog. For a moment, as his mind slips deeper into sleep, that is all that there is. <br/>
<br/>
That is all that there is, until there is <em>nothing</em>. </p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>heeellllooo! here's the beginning of a new story :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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